First Love

Sunrise. Salt.  And so we met.

Music. Midnight. And we moved.

Pigeons. Pockets. And we hid.

Swings. Sweat. And we danced.

Distance. Dampness. And we ran.

Football. Facade. Drew new lines and overstepped.

Cake. Closet. Hid beneath the sheets.

Secrets. Slippers. Tore at promises and all that bothered.

Grass. Gullies.  Tread on each other’s feet.

Lips. Light. Raised bars, chased cars.

Stories. Sunburn. And we were left untold.

Rain. Red. And we tasted the gods.

Words. Walks. Stranded at crossroads.

Blanks. Books. And we were empty.

Dates. Dogs. Fancifully fed.

Nails. Nests. We drove into walls.

Goats. Gates. Bled together, sharpened swords.

Laughter. Letters. We wrote ourselves anew. 

Toothbrush. Terrace. And we fell off beds.

Skirt. Sofa. Lay quiet under rustling leaves, shouting guards. 

Buses. Binoculars. Tied ourselves to rocks and jumped.

Guitar. Games. Bruised and bumbled.

Movies. Metro. We flashed in motion pictures.

Album. Arms. And green strawberries.

Shower. Shade. Swirled jam and cradled water.

Orange. Over-bridge. Freshly baked, burnt and spared.

Petals. Pulse. And we played to the beat.

Fury. Fantasies. And the bubble burst.

Cricket. Cats. We blew a new one.

Finding Neverland. Here we go again.

Sticky Feet

Even now

As my feet fill in the marks of yesterday

The sand covers them

Holding them where they are

The heavenly comfort of stillness

Of having been here before

Keeps me stranded

For a while

Even now

Yesterday seems sepia-tinted

And the colours stand out

Sunflowers more yellow than they really were

Suns blush brighter than before

Petals thrown up in the air

Rain down like in the pictures

For a while

Even now

Swings move to the gentle rhythms

Of our background score

Park benches remain empty

Waiting for those who first claimed them

Or pretended to be the first anyhow

And I linger by the gate

For a while

The sands will shift

Tides will rise

Other feet will fill the marks I left behind

Do not despair if you miss me

Come stand on this spot right here

And you will see me

I am that girl

Building castles on the shore 

My White Lie

Edged out on blackened stones

I trip over white lines

Stick to it still

Seems like miles

But runs in circles

So I chase my shadows

Across vales

Out of windows

Over drowning sails

I crossed the smudge in the end

The beginning

Or somewhere in the middle

Tapped it with a toe

And tread lightly on

Should I stop somewhere and leave a mark?

Stay long enough to make a start?

Leave a coloured dot

Smudge another part?

Show the world I was here

Been there done that

Silently smirk

And depart?

I stared and stared

And shut an eye

I swear it moved

I bent the line

We move awkwardly now

My pirate eye

My white lie

And I

Yellow

Stark flowers

Left white on graying lines

The petals don’t match

And we don’t like the same leaves.

We rose

Preparing to spring

You to Jan,

Me to December

Both cold, distant places

Poles of our similar seasons

Distinguishable to none.

Did I say we rose?

For yes, we rose.

But left only one.

I lazily flicked it away

But it came crawling back up my finger

I watched as it circled my nail.

It runs when I follow,

Creeps back when I turn away.

Why do yellow-blooded creatures remind me of you?

But there was my bubble

Glinting in the afternoon sun.

It was now.

It was my turn to leave.

Miri

We scratch nails.
Peel paint.
And suddenly we can cleanse ourselves.
Suddenly we have power.
If only everything peeled off.
Dry skin.
Potatoes.
The plastic covers on books.
On shoelaces.
And everything else that matters.
For that's all she does.
Bites lips.
And winces.

Living Off The Living

...off-putting information political dimensions of British Romantic-era Trollope's notoriously vitriolic weirdness of Americans slightly unfavorable ritualized sameness anticipates complaints about the same offense evident with hindsight engulfed in an infernal hell...

waves come crashing at my feet
shake wind and webs and veneers
even flooded lands dry
leaving cracks
like gashes on a withered, wrinkled homeland
too old to keep me
i want to stay
but i cannot swim
i cannot stay afloat
so i throw away plastic armour
build my own webs
and climb onto another's back
spurring them on
i shut my eyes
and hope their shells are waterproof
or can be blow-dried

The Last Letter

How much do you change between a few sheaves of paper?
A few lines that hold the power to mark the end. A moment stretched and stretched and stretched and stretched. Lingering at every letter, every syllable, every period. But the last punctuation lasts forever. And we depart. The same lines that brought us together for that brief ecstatic moment severs us. For good. For good. 

I have ground those words to infinity
I have shredded and powdered them to dust
And yet it is me who is dusted off travelling cloaks
And metaphors

Dribble only makes it stand out more
Acutely fresh and stark in the dirt
Teeth can tear only bark
Not memory

And so I drain ice
And pomegranates bursting at the seams
Drops trickle down
Smearing what is now grease
Leaving fingerprints
So some part of me stayed with the letter
I am not wholly inconstant
There is still a moist place where we touched
Where we used to be.